


your love is sunlight

by mothwrites



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Love And Protect Olala Club, Modern AU, Multi, arum and marc are Best Bros (as they should be), big found/adopted family energy, dampierre is a miniature service horse, everyone except rilla works in a big historic palace that's open to tourists, kind of similar to a ren faire if you're american
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: “Have you not met Mr Damien?” Olala asks. “He works in the palace gardens with Marc, and he is very strong, and sometimes he puts on a costume to be a knight and he fights with Mr Angelo and Miss Caroline in the courtyard and they do that every day at two and four pm,” she says, practically reciting from the tourism guidebook.Modern AU Second Citadel. Marc wants to set his sister up with someone he actually likes. Rilla wants her brother to stop trying to derail her engagement. Arum wants the groundsmen to stop interfering in the affairs of the gardeners. Olala just really wants to be crowned harvest princess.
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast), Sir Marc & Arum (Penumbra Podcast), Sir Marc & Olala (Penumbra Podcast)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 80





	1. olala's best summer ever

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some of my favourite parts of summer (specifically going on day trips to historic palaces/castles and gardens,) which I can't do this year because *gestures vaguely to the global pandemic*. So here's a 'the characters of the Second Citadel work at a National Trust property' AU, featuring that good Marc/Arum friendship and Olala getting all the love she deserves.
> 
> I'm axtiasluna on tumblr - come chat to me about SC or ask me any questions you like about this admittedly niche setting!
> 
> Title, as is law for Second Citadel fics, is from Hozier (Sunlight).

“I need to set you up with my sister.”

Arum processes Marc’s words a few moments later, after he’s let Olala crash into him in her way of a hug and set her down upon his countertop, making approving noises at her chattering the whole time. It’s only once he’s sneakily given her a lollipop and set her free to to run around the greenhouse does he really understand what he’s heard.

“Your sister?” He frowns.

Marc nods enthusiastically. “See, I was going to set you up with Talfryn,” he explains in a total lack of an answer, “but that just lead to a slightly awkward conversation filled with vulnerability and brotherly love and long story short, he’s not dating anyone ever, which is absolutely fine. So it has to be Rilla.” He pauses for a moment, still grinning. “What? You need a picture or something?”

“Marc…” Arum runs a green-gloved hand over his face. “Isn’t your sister engaged?”

“That’s the best part!” Marc crows. “My mother will stop asking me when I’m going to come clean about my _relationship,_ and we’ll _also_ get rid of Rilla’s awful fiancé. Two birds, one beautiful soon-to-be romance.”

“ _Marc,_ ” Olala chastisises. Her chubby little hands are at her hips and she’s looking at him with an expression uncannily like Director Mira’s when department meetings get out of hand. “You can’t say that about Mr Damien! He and Aunt Rilla are in _love!”_

“So they keep telling me,” Marc grumbles. “Arum, please, help a guy out here.”

Arum helps Olala back onto his worksurface and she pokes her tongue out at Marc before sucking smugly on her lollipop. She narrows her eyes at Arum, and even if he _were_ the sort of man to play homewrecker, he would never do anything against the wishes of his friend’s adopted daughter.

“Olala says no,” he says simply. “I couldn’t possibly.”

Marc groans. “Okay, then you at _least_ have to come for dinner at Mum’s after the Harvest festival. We’re having a whole family shindig. Well, family and Damien.”

“You count as family,” Olala adds with big serious eyes, and Arum feels an unexpected lump rise in his throat. “And Mr Damien is very nice,” she continues. “He writes songs and plays them for us and some of them are about Aunt Rilla and they are _beautiful._ He’s going to teach me how to play the ookehlayla,” she adds, her little legs swinging in excitement.

“Ukelele,” Marc corrects, despondent.

“He sounds very nice,” Arum says, to appease Olala, and then adds: “it’s perfectly natural to be protective of your sister,” to appease Marc, who huffs.

“Have you not met Mr Damien?” Olala asks. “He works in the palace gardens with Marc, and he is _very_ strong, and sometimes he puts on a costume to be a knight and he fights with Mr Angelo and Miss Caroline in the courtyard and they do that every day at two and four pm,” she says, practically reciting from the tourism guidebook.

“I know his face,” Arum says, waving a hand vaguely. He rarely ventures out of the greenhouses and edible gardens. He has absolutely no interest in the ‘living history’ portion of their workplace. The whole thing is rather silly; costumes and fake swords and tour guides pretending to be ghosts. Still, he cannot deny it is effective. Living history brings in the tourists so that they can buy Marc’s handmade crafts and Arum’s plants, and the children delight in watching mock ‘battles’ and knighting ceremonies. Olala enjoys it most of all, as Marc is one of the few groundskeepers with a child who is regularly on site. ‘Princess’ Olala is adored by all of her subjects – even Caroline – and by Arum most of all.

“You’ll come, right?” Marc asks.

Arum dithers. He is not exactly – Marc is _fine_ , of course, and he enjoys the quiet company of Talfryn, who works in the gardens with him when he's not leading foraging tours - but so many people in one space…

Olala tugs on his apron and stage-whispers: “Mr Arum, I have something secret to tell you,” and stares pointedly at Marc until he huffs good-naturedly again.

“Come on, Dampierre.” Marc clicks his tongue and his miniature service horse stands to attention. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard, kiddo,” he calls back as he wheels around to leave the greenhouse. “And Arum, I’ll see you Saturday night for dinner, no arguments.”

Olala waits until Marc is safely outside before turning back to Arum. He kneels down on the soil-scattered stones in front of her so that they are almost at eye-level, with Olala a tiny ways above him.

“What is it, hatchling?”

She giggles at the nickname and squirms in place. Arum is patient, letting her suck on the rapidly-disappearing lollipop while she tries to form her words into sounds.

“The thing is,” she says, waving her lollipop around like a wand. “The thing is, I have never been to a _Harvest Festival_ before.” She says the words with as much reverence as Mr Damien and his ukelele warranted, if not more, and Arum has to fight down an amused smile lest she feel condescended to. “And I have not lived with Marc for such a very long time that I feel _totally_ certain what to expect at a… ‘shindig’. And I like Uncle Tal and Aunt Rilla and Grandma so _very_ much, but…” She trails off.

“You do not always feel comfortable in crowds,” Arum observes. She nods gratefully.

“They are always so nice when I come to visit,” Olala continues, starting to look guilty. “But they will ask so very _many_ questions about school and if I like living at home with Marc and what I like to do and it can be very _loud_ because sometimes they all talk at once. And that is because they are a big family and they love to talk to each other, which is good. But I was hoping maybe you would come with us and we could sit together and maybe if it gets very loud we could take Dam’perre with us outside and I could show you Grandma’s garden which I think you would like very much.” She says her last bit in a rush that sounds rehearsed, which makes Arum feel sad and honoured all at once.

“I would be honoured to join you,” he says seriously, and takes off his gloves before reaching out a hand. “And we will make a solemn pact to help each other escape if it gets too loud. What do you say?”

“ _Yes,”_ Olala grins, and grabs his hand with both of hers. They’re sticky, but he’s used to it. Olala is always a little sticky. It’s the prerogative of a six year old.

A thought strikes him. “Has Marc explained to you what the Harvest Festival actually is?”

“Oh _yes_ ,” Olala answers, head bouncing. “It is when you collect up all the fruit and vegetables you have been growing all year and you show them off on a big table in the courtyard. And the palace is decorated everywhere with flowers and all the visitors bring food to donate in big piles for people who need it, and there are going to be extra-special shows and puppets and music and Marc is going to help me make a _harvest crown_ so I might win the harvest crown competition and be _harvest princess_ , and sit on a big flowery throne with all the knights, and-“ she has to stop to draw breath and Arum can’t help but laugh.

“Yes, that’s… that’s about right.” He’d never really considered the Harvest Festival as anything but one of the palace’s main tourism draws, but through the eyes of a child it sounds as special as anything possibly could be. Olala will win the harvest crown competition, of course. Half the groundsmen and gardeners would strike if she didn’t, Arum included.

“You will have to come by and collect some extra-special flowers for your crown,” he tells her, and she jumps up and down in her seat and claps her little hands. “But I think your father is waiting for you and you should be getting on your way home now.”

The word ‘father’ slips out unbidden and he almost winces. Six months ago, Olala would have blinked at him and explained very patiently that she did not have a father, only the nuns of her former children’s home and her new foster carer. Three months ago she was still tentatively calling him “Mr Marc”. Now she grins again and says: “Yes! And I will tell him you are coming for the dinner after all.” She bounds off after that, leaving Arum to smile fondly and begin clearing up his worksurface, ready to shut up the greenhouse and go home. He lingers over the cleaning, as usual. The palace grounds and its gardens feel more like home than his lonely apartment in the city.

He hates to admit it, but Marc is right. He needs to get out more.

There are very few tourists wandering the grounds when he leaves the greenhouse. In the summer the Director takes advantage of the light evenings and keeps the gardens open longer than the palace itself, so tourists have as much time as possible to walk around and enjoy the grounds. It’s a long walk to the entrance and an even longer one to the bus stop, but it’s such a beautiful summer’s evening that Arum can’t find the energy to be grumpy about it. The fruits of the gardener’s labours are ripe and fragrant. Everywhere he looks is a riot of colour, and when he closes his eyes he smells late summer roses, thistle, lilac and sweetpeas, honeysuckle…

“Oh! Do excuse me-“

His pleasant reverie is cut short by the clanking of armour. Arum opens his eyes to see he’s almost collided with one of the groundsmen dressed in their reenactment garb. He can never remember which one is which when they’re in costume, but he knows one thing – the one with the sun-patterned shield is the most annoying by far, and that’s the one who’s almost crashed into him. Of course.

“I suppose you’re looking for a duel,” he says wearily. Such ridiculous creatures, the groundsmen. And this one, in particular.

The figure chuckles at him condescendingly. “Fear not, friend! I am simply heading to the staff changing rooms. It gets very hot in this, you know.”

Arum squints at them. “I thought your lot finished work hours ago.”

“Ah, we did, but there was a family with such darling little children, and they seemed to enjoy our little battle so much I decided to stay and escort them around the market!”

Arum snorts. “That sounds so very _taxing._ I hope they paid extra for it.”

The figure _harrumphs,_ and pointedly steps to the side of Arum. “That is _not_ what our work is about, but then again, what would you hermits know of our work? Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Please, go ahead. I’m starting to smell roasted groundsman in that tin armour,” Arum snipes, (fucking _groundsmen),_ and continues his walk home, mentally planning out the best flowers he can spare for Olala's crown.

*

Everyone is in a bad mood the next morning. Arum’s bus was late, and Mira hadn’t remembered to tell Marc that the only room free for the departmental meeting was in the inaccessible wing of the palace, so he hadn’t brought his crutches. Arum was jogging along the path to the palace when he saw him Skyping into the meeting from his phone, and stayed out of solidarity. Besides, it was a beautiful morning, and the palace was stuffy and overly-insulated.

“I swear she _forgets_ to tell me on purpose,” Marc steamed while on mute. Arum put down his satchel and stretched out on the ground beside Dampierre, who accepted a head-pat. “And even when she does book a room I can get my chair into, it’s always such a _big deal._ I have to be so _grateful_ that everyone can be so _accommodating,_ and it’s just – yes, we’re listening,” he adds, hastily turning the microphone back on.

“It’s not very convenient to have the two of you having extra conversations during the meeting,” Mira says sniffily, Caroline backing her up with a glare.

“It’s also not convenient to have a meeting in a place that one of us can’t access,” Arum shoots back loyally. “Marc shouldn’t have to sit here alone because upper management refuses to put an elevator in the east wing.”

The force of Caroline’s glare increases. “You know very well that the east wing, like the rest of the palace, is a protected building, and getting the permissions for new building works would be-“

“Completely necessary and morally vital?” Arum interrupts, and Marc bumps their fists together below the camera.

“I have promised to take it up with the board of trustees, and I will. Once _again,_ Marc, I’m sorry. But as I was saying, it’s the Harvest Festival this weekend, and…”

Marc puts them on mute again. “Thanks for sticking up for me, bud.”

“Any time. It’s ridiculous that they keep doing this.” For a while they listen to Mira in companionable silence, Arum taking the opportunity to eat a breakfast bar he’d missed out on the rush to work. Mira talks about ticket sales and profits made in the craftsmen’s quarter and the garden centre. Arum sighs as she points out the decline in specialist plant sales and knows he’s going to end up with a one-to-one scheduled in his calender where he’ll have to explain, once again, that he just can’t give out some of his carefully tended exotic plants to novices who think they look pretty. Marc’s team, at least, is doing well – there are wood, leather and metal workers, and they bring in glass-blowers and potters for festivals. They do a roaring trade in the summer and this year has been particularly good. Arum thinks the fact they had Olala running around the grounds in her tiara and miniature set of armour, dragging unwitting tourists to Marc’s workshop, might just have given them the edge.

“Oh, here,” Marc says, and passes Arum his phone. He’s snapped a picture of one of Olala’s drawings, and mercifully explains that it’s a sketch of what she wants her crown to look like before Arum has to puzzle it out. “Can you get her those flowers?”

“Yes, of course. Our pink blobs are growing wonderfully this year,” Arum says, and is swatted in the side for his efforts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I really want her to enjoy herself,” Marc says with a worried frown, as if Olala hasn’t been running amok around the grounds all summer, making every single worker fall in love with her and having a wonderful time doing so. “I know she’s nervous about Saturday, so, thanks for agreeing to come. Seriously.” There’s a pause, before he adds: “Rilla likes lilies, by the way.”

“Marc,” Arum groans. “I am not – oh,” he says, remembering. “Which one is Damien, anyway?”

“Can’t tell the groundsmen apart, huh?” Marc jokes. “Him, with the floppy hair and stupid expression. Left of Angelo. The big guy.”

“I know who Angelo is,” Arum mutters, rolling his eyes. He’s impossible to miss, six-foot-four and always dressed in his ridiculous knight costume, even when he isn’t in the daily show. He does vaguely recognise Damien, he has to admit. The man is as easily recognisable as Angelo, in his own way. Arum remembers the last summer festival especially. Damien had incorporated an archery competition into the usual choreographed battles and living history scenes, and the man’s _arms…_

“Humph. Well,” Arum says, “I don’t see why you thought I could tempt your sister away from _that._ ”

Marc splutters with laughter as Arum realises what he’s said and turns as pink as Olala’s scribbled flowers. “Shut up. Shut _up,_ you insufferable – oh dear Lord, wind that back.”

“I can’t _wind it back,_ ” Marc says, wheezing. “It’s a Skype meeting.”

Arum taps the screen furiously and unmutes them to speak directly over Absolon. “What do you mean, we _all_ have to be in costume?”

“I knew you weren’t listening,” Caroline retorts back, also interrupting Absolon. “Yes. _All_ of us.”

“Gardeners too?” Arum demands.

The full force of Caroline’s glare is no less effective over Skype. “Yes, Arum. That includes you.”

“And why, praytell, do we have to make ourselves look as ridiculous as the groundsmen?” Arum demands.

Damien, of all people, scoffs. “Yes, God forbid the _hermits_ of the greenhouses have to interact with the common people.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Mira says wearily, and Arum is left spluttering at the camera. Marc mutes them again and pats his shoulder in solidarity.

“See, didn’t I tell you? He’s the worst.”

“Agreed,” Arum grounds out. “I imagine he’s the one with the sun on his shield, isn’t he?”

“The what – oh, yeah. I think so.”

He stews in silence for a moment. The meeting continues, though he’s completely stopped paying attention, thinking furiously about the ridiculousness of groundsmen, and their total disregard for the real work that goes on in the grounds, and their thrice-cursed costumes, and _Damien…_

“So,” Marc interrupts his furious silence, stretching the word out til it’s long and elastic. “Will you date my sister _now?”_


	2. violet memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arum smiles down at the crayon drawing of a lizard, with ‘Arum’ written carefully, if shakily, at the top. 
> 
> “Rilla - my fiancée - wanted to know if it was for you, or if you were the lizard,” Damien says, matching his smile. 
> 
> “What did you tell her?” 
> 
> “I said you spent so much time in the greenhouses I could hardly say.” 

“Something like this,” Arum says, handing Marc a  roughly-woven coronet of flowers. “Only with  colours she prefers – pink, I suppose.” Marc sits up to inspect it properly with no small amount of core strength. They are lying in one of the areas less full of tourists; a grassy meadow overlooking the small lake that runs almost around the entirety of the grounds. It is a warm day, not too hot, and picnickers are out in force. He’d helped Marc out of his wheelchair so he could lie down in the grass with  Dampierre happily munching nearby. Arum sat with arms locked out behind him and his legs stretched, highly enjoying the warm sun.

Olala likes very bright flowers; daffodils, pink roses and garish  geberas . For the prototype he had taken whatever came to hand. The coronet Marc was twirling in his hands smelled strongly of honeysuckle, with red amaryllis flowers acting in the place of jewels.

“Nice,” Marc says appreciatively. “Yeah, I think she’d love that. Thanks, buddy.”

“Not at all.” There’s a brief,  companionable pause in which Arum remembers how nice it is not to work through lunch  once in a while . 

“I know she gets worried about big family events,” Marc sighs eventually, propping himself up on one arm to look at Arum. “It’ll really help to have you there. And as much as I hate to say it... Damien does a great job with her too.”

Arum sniffs. “I suppose children like talking to him because he always talks so childishly.”

Marc guffaws, but continues: “No, really. You know how anxious she gets sometimes? Well, Damien and Rilla were babysitting the other night, and he taught her this... mindfulness thing. Like meditation, only there were fish involved.”

Arum quirks an eyebrow: “Fish?”

“Don’t ask me,” Marc shrugs. “But it seemed to really help. And that night when I came to tuck her in, she was saying something about how her bad thoughts were like fish and they couldn’t hurt her, and I dunno, she just seemed... calm.” His voice drops lower. “Calmer than I can ever usually get her, anyway.”

Arum doesn’t like the silence that follows. It’s oppressive, and it clings to Marc like grey smoke. When he gets like this – when he  _ doubts  _ himself so – it's hard to get him to believe anything else. He is so very much like his daughter, in that way. Arum puts a hand over his.

“You are becoming a wonderful father to  Olala ,” he says seriously. “With very little experience, or practice, or even any prior  _ interest  _ in children, you have given her a safe and loving home. And she  _ adores  _ you.” He taps Marc’s hand lightly with his nails. “Stop this nonsense at once.”

Marc laughs, and even though the smoke isn’t entirely lifted, the air seems easier to breathe. He exhales. “Thanks, buddy.”

“And I did that without any mention of fish,” Arum says, to make him laugh further, which he does.

“Ah!” Marc exclaims, propping himself a little more upright. His hand leaves Arum’s as he does so. “Speak of the devil.”

Arum blinks up at the dark figure who is haloed by the sun. Sunlight streak his dark hair with bronze and his skin with gold, and as he sits  down he  realises it’s Damien himself who’s interrupted them.

“A devil, you say?” Damien asks  unamused . He digs a lunchbox and a fork out of his bag, opens it and takes out a small samosa to munch on.

Marc peers over his shoulder. “Is that Rilla’s jhal muri?”

“I don’t think devils share their food,” Damian says  sniffly , but he only sighs when Marc steals a handful from its section in the lunchbox. “Brat.”

“You sound just like her,” Marc grins, mouth full of puffed rice. 

Damien sighs again and offers the box to Arum.

“This is new,” Arum observes, taking a small pinch. “ Groundsmen breaking bread with gardeners.”

Damien sniffs again. “I am charged to deliver you this,” he says, and is cut off by Arum’s laughter.

“ _ Charged?” _

“I- oh,” Damien rolls his eyes. “My apologies. Sorry. I’ve been in knight-mode all morning, it tends to... rub off on you. Regardless, here.” He digs in his backpack to find a slightly crumpled card and hands it to Arum. “We were babysitting  Olala and she left it on our table.”

Arum smiles down at the crayon drawing of a lizard, with ‘Arum’ written carefully, if shakily, at the top.

“Rilla - my fiancée - wanted to know if it was  _ for  _ you, or if you were the lizard,” Damien says, matching his smile.

“What did you tell her?”

“I said you spent so much time in the greenhouses I could hardly say.”

“Take an hour off, guys,” Marc says, flopping back down. “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and this is going to be the only decent break we get before Harvest prep starts.”

The three of them collectively groan.

“I have to wear a costume,” Arum says for perhaps the thousandth time this week, tone ever increasing in vitriol. “ _ What,  _ exactly, is a gardener supposed to dress as?”

“Perhaps a lizard,” Damien says after a moment’s contemplation. Arum pushes him down into the grass, and as he sits up, laughing, he twirls Arum’s flower crown prototype in his hands. “What, praytell, is this?”

“It is,  _ praytell _ _ ,  _ a crown,” Arum says. He takes it from Damien and roughly jams it on the  groundsman’s head, where, annoyingly, it looks rather lovely. The delicate, pale yellow honeysuckle blossoms peek up, over and through his dark wavy hair, giving him the impression of being crowned by sunlight. His smile doesn’t hurt the effect either. Arum coughs and looks away. “For Olala,” he explains. “Although this is just a prototype.”

“I see.” Damien is smiling that faintly charmed smile as he takes the crown off to further inspect it. “Ah!” He exclaims jovially. “Amaryllis. You have good taste, my friend.”

“Oh, is that what they are?” Marc peers at them and then gives Arum a thumbs up. “You should bring some of those for Rilla on Saturday.”

Arum sighs. “Once again, I am not bringing your sister flowers. If I bring anyone flowers it will be your mother, both for hosting and for putting up with  _ you." _

Marc pouts, and Damien, having lost the thread of the conversation completely while staring fondly at the amaryllis, looks at them each in turn.

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of flowers from Arum,” he says eventually, as if he’s trying to  _ appease  _ Marc, who looks even more confused in return.

“What?” They both say in unison.

Damien flusters. It’s a surprisingly endearing sight. “I only thought – of course, the two of you may prefer different gestures to show your affection for one another, I should not assume that because one of you is a botanist that-”

Marc groans load enough to make  Dampierre whinny in surprise. He falls back to the grass with a thud, hand over his eyes. “Damien.  _ Damien. Stop listening to my mother.” _

Damien blinks at them both in turn. “So, the two of you are...”

“ _ Not dating,”  _ Marc grinds out.

“Not in the slightest,” Arum adds. He hadn’t entirely believed Marc when he’d said this was a misconception his family had, assuming it was just a ploy to get the ‘hermit’ out of his greenhouse for an evening. But Damien’s confusion and surprise  is as real as it is startling. 

“Why didn’t you just  _ ask  _ me?” Marc demands. “For starters, do you really think I would disrupt Olala’s routine like that, when she’s only just settled in with me?”

“Well, I..” Damien, now flushing almost as red as the amaryllis petals, absent-mindedly scrunches up some grass in his hands. “I was surprised by it, but she is so fond of you both and it didn’t seem to be hurting anything – which I see now is because nothing was happening at all.” He chuckles to hide some of the awkwardness. “My apologies, my friends.”

Marc grunts. Arum waves away the apology with one hand.

“You never  _ have  _ brought me flowers,” Marc says a minute later.

“Oh, shut up.”

*

Olala’s crown is decorated with lush pink chrysanthemums, bright purple aster, cheerful marigolds, and flowering ginger. Underneath the stem-and-wire coronet are LED fairy lights cunningly woven in by Marc, with a battery pack hidden under frothy sprays of stonecrop and fern leaves. Once the long summer day’s festivities start to come to a close, her crown lights up and Director Mira buries her head in her hands.

“I can’t just pick one of the staff’s children,” she groans at Caroline. “Even if it is, by far, the best crown.”

“I think you’re going to have to,” Caroline says wisely, “if you want any member of staff remaining to help with the clean-up.”

Olala is  lifted up to the flowery throne by Angelo, who declares in his booming voice that Princess  Olala will oversee the knighting ceremony. She wriggles in her seat and claps her hands, searching for Marc in the small crowd. He isn't hard to spot – he's the one cheering the loudest.  Olala ‘knights’ all the children who took part in the day’s activities. There are plastic medals and certificates given out, and then the crowd begins to disperse. Before  Olala gets down she tugs on Angelo’s sleeve. He immediately drops to one knee.

“Yes, my princess? Your knights await your every command!”

Olala giggles and leans forward to whisper in his ear. The remaining members of staff watch as he listens solemnly, nodding when she draws back. With another boom, he announces: “Princess  Olala would like to pick a knight as her champion!”

There are delighted laughs from the crowd, and more than a few coos as the ‘knights’ gather before her and drop a knee as Angelo did.  Olala makes a big display of walking up and down the length of her little float, tapping her chin and making hemming and hawing noises. Then, with a grin, she leaps off the float, runs past the assembled costumed  groundsmen and jumps onto Marc’s lap. 

“I pick Sir Marc!” She yells happily.

Damien pouts amidst the laughter and cheers. Next to Arum,  Talfryn starts muttering wetly and pats down his pockets for a handkerchief. Marc just holds on tight to  Olala , ignoring the flowers and sprays of fern poking at his face.

“I love you so much, kid,” Arum hears him murmur fiercely into her hair.

He’s smiling at them both when Damien sidles up to him. “You’re not wearing a costume after all,” he accuses, making Arum jump.

“Foolish nonsense,” he mutters, looking away reluctantly from the family tableau. “I turned up in my usual uniform and Mira had me rifle through the dressing up-box.” He shakes out the purple cloak that had been stuffed in his canvas satchel. “This was the least offensive garment I could find.”

Damien laughs heartily, and then with a thoughtful smile, takes the cloak from him to drape it around Arum’s shoulders. “You should wear it,” he scolds him warmly. “Why, it matches your eyes.”

Arum blinks at him. “It does?” He stutters stupidly, as if he cannot remember the  colour of his own irises. Blue, like his mother’s. He blinks the memory away to find Damien staring at him. Then he looks away too with a nervous chuckle. 

“I shall see you for dinner at Angharad’s, then?”

“Ah - yes,” Arum says, remembering at the last second that Angharad is the name of Marc and  Talfryn’s mother. “Yes, it shouldn’t take me too long to close up the gardens.”

Damien turns away a little more, then pauses to look fondly at  Olala chattering nineteen to the dozen at Marc, still sat on his lap. A flash of yellow sunlight catches Arum’s eye.

“Honeysuckle,” he says.

Damien turns around. “Yes?”

“No, I mean-” he breaks off and gestures to his ear. “There’s honeysuckle stuck in your hair.”

“Oh!” Damien laughs at him, awkwardness broken. “I’m afraid I liberated your prototype crown for the traditional dances earlier. Uh, would you?”

Arum steps forward, and with delicate botanist’s hands removes the blossom without damaging a single petal. Unsure of what to do next, he gives it back to Damien, who takes it with a flourish.

“My thanks, friend.”

“You’re... welcome.” He watches Damien leave, unsure of what’s just happened – if anything has happened at all. It is only when Olala tugs at his apron does he break off his gaze to look at her.

“Congratulations,” he says warmly. “Princess  Olala .”

Olala laughs and twirls. “Thank you for my crown!” She says again. She’d gushed over it all morning, but it still makes Arum smile to know his efforts were so appreciated. “Can we pick some pretty flowers for Grandma and Aunt Rilla before we go?”

Arum really shouldn’t use so much of the palace garden’s resources on one child, but... “Of course,” he says. “I think I know which ones she’ll like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you were expecting conflict in this fic? angst? no my friends this is 100% fluff through and through because we DESERVE it. thanks for all your comments, they blew me away (keep 'em coming). rilla is coming in chapter three i promise, i just need to concentrate all of my gay energies to write someone so perfect and beautiful xx t
> 
> this chapter isn't edited because if i don't immediately upload as and when i've got the energy to write i'll never update at all, apologies for any grammar or tense slips!


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